


and brave when you are free

by blackkat



Series: Horoscope Drabbles [27]
Category: Naruto
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Supernatural Elements, M/M, Reincarnation, this is also vaguely a magical girl au, we all know Hashirama would make the best magical girl
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-09
Updated: 2019-01-09
Packaged: 2019-10-07 06:49:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 949
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17361044
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blackkat/pseuds/blackkat
Summary: Hashirama can tell that they're following him.





	and brave when you are free

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by Normal Horoscopes on Tumblr:
> 
> Ophiuchus: The last of a now unrecognizable order of knights. A great axe warped by unnatural fire. All too familiar eyes.

Hashirama can tell that they're following him.

He’d thought it was a mistake, earlier. An overactive imagination, too little sleep, too many hours in the library giving him glimpses of shapes from the corner of his eye. Had thought it was the darkness closing in as he left the college, shadows that seemed to shift in the headlights of people driving past, and had laughed it off to himself.

Now, in the darkness of the forest road, he can hear footsteps.

Dread is a hand closed tight around his heart, and Hashirama quickens his pace, trying not to stumble. There's a light up ahead, half-visible through the trees, and it feels like the only one for miles. Feels like safety, and some bit of hope, and Hashirama doesn’t want to run and give away that he knows but the footfalls are heavy, ringing. Loud in the night air, too close behind, and it’s like someone is breathing down his neck even if he doesn’t dare to turn and look.

There's no one waiting at home. Tobirama still has two months left at his internship, and Itama is backpacking with friends, and Kawarama is on a school trip. No one is going to know if Hashirama doesn’t make it home, not for days, and suddenly that knowledge feels sinister. Not just a coincidence. It is, Hashirama knows, but—

He can hear the creak of leather, the scrape of metal. There’s ash on the wind, like a forge-fire, and he closes his eyes, grips the strap of his pack tighter, and hurries towards the light.

The streetlamp is clearer now, closer. Flickering, but steadily so, with the hum of fluorescents and the faint clatter of moths crashing into the glass. Hashirama breathes out when he sees it, bright against the surrounding darkness, and there's no one on the road, but if someone _does_ pass they're far more likely to see him under the light. The house is still a mile away, down another stretch of dark forest road, and Hashirama half-considers turning now, taking a shortcut through the woods because he _knows_ them, but—

One step into the light and a hand closes around his arm.

Hashirama shouts, jerks, but it doesn’t matter. He’s dragged forward, right under the glow of the streetlamp, and the thing that’s been following pushes him right up against the post even as Hashirama struggles. It’s a man, or something like it, clad in battered armor with a spill of dark hair from under his helmet. An insignia is burned into the chestplate like a brand, lines that twist into a leaf with a spiral in the center, nothing Hashirama has ever seen before even after years in the history department. There's an axe in one hand, scorched and warped, and Hashirama twists, tries to throw himself out of the way, expecting it to swing at his head, thinking _this is the end_ —

The axe falls, tumbles from the man’s grasp to bury itself in the ground, and there's a great, rattling breath that sounds like relief. The knight’s free hand comes up to grip Hashirama’s other arm, pinning him in place, but the knight doesn’t advance. He stops, head bowing, shoulders slumping. The crown of thorns on his helmet glows a bloody red beneath the streetlight.

“Sire,” he rasps, and that voice is ragged, worn, full of thankfulness. His grip is tight, but not bruising, and Hashirama freezes, entirely uncertain what to do. He’s still hemmed in, pinned back against the post, but—

The sense of threat is gone. The fear that drove him at a near-run up the road and into the light is draining away like water into sand, and he takes a careful breath, raises a hand and lays it over one armored forearm.

“What—what do you want from me?” he asks carefully.

There's a long, long pause, and then the knight lifts his head. He lets go of Hashirama, reaches up to his helmet, and slowly pulls it off.

“Hashirama,” the man beneath says, and looks up to meet his eyes. There are a thousand things written into his features, and first among them is relief. “You came back. I've been waiting so long for you.”

Hashirama opens his mouth, plans to politely disagree, to say that he’s never met this man before in his life and that there's been a mistake. Plans to, _wants_ to, and—

He meets the man’s dark eyes and can't get out a single word.

They're _familiar_ eyes. Not—not in the way of a person Hashirama has met before, but even so, he _knows_ them. He’s seen them. Never in the real world, never in a waking moment, but—

“I've dreamed about you,” he whispers, stunned, and the knight’s face twists into a smile that’s full of grief. He reaches out, and gloved hands cup Hashirama’s face, pull him in until there’s only a hair’s breadth between them.

“I betrayed you once,” he says, fierce, and Hashirama thinks of the brand on his armor, inexpertly done, worn and battered. “I betrayed the order. But no more. You’ve been reborn, and I will never leave you again.”

The words shiver down Hashirama’s spine, a sense of rightness, of familiarity. He breathes out, ragged, letting his eyes close, and there's only one name in his head, even though he’s never known it before.

“Madara,” he says softly, and Madara pulls him in, kisses the breath from his lungs, presses himself up against Hashirama so tightly it’s like he’ll never let go. The grip of his hands is bruising but perfect, desperate and wanting, and his gloves leave the insignia of a war-fan pressed into Hashirama’s skin.


End file.
